


Many happy returns

by Feelingflamesagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Birthday, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feelingflamesagain/pseuds/Feelingflamesagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is Lestrade’s birthday, and things are decidedly more fluffy than the detective inspector cares to admit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Many happy returns

**Author's Note:**

> Believe me or not, this has been lying in my drafts for six months before S3. Any resemblance to the ideas in a certain pre-season episode is purely coincidental.

It only took him one attempt to sink the key into the lock, Lestrade noted, very pleased with himself.

“See?” He turned around to the man leaning against the wall next to the door. “Told you I was fine.”

John chuckled. “As a medical professional, “fine” wouldn’t be exactly the word I’d use here. But for a man your age …”

Lestrade grunted. “We’ll talk again when you reach …”

“47”, John provided, ever the helpful mate that he was. He looked over to where their designated driver was drumming her fingers on the wheel in time with the faint music coming from the radio, and he held up one finger.

“Right, I’m off then.” He padded Lestrade lightly on the back. “Good fun tonight, wasn’t it. Never thought I would see the day Anderson declares his undying love for the karaoke machine. In front of the entire Yard, and everything.” They both took a few seconds to conjure up the memory, and then dissolved into manly giggles.

“Too bad Sherlock couldn’t join us”, said John when he had regained his breath.

Lestrade sighed. “You know how he is in a crowd. Especially  _that_  crowd. And he caught us a bastard imposter just this morning. I take what I can get.” He tried not to grin too stupidly, but going by the ‘I-don’t-think-I’ll-ever-get-the-two-of-you’-expression on John’s face, Lestrade was not sure he had been entirely successful.

“Say hi to him from me when he has joined the living again. G’night, Greg.”

When he returned the short wave from both Mary and John before they drove off, Lestrade asked himself whether this joke would, at any point in time, become funny.

 

  
*****

 

Lestrade found the hallway in full darkness with only a faint glow coming from the living room, partly static, partly moving, probably the television and the lamp next to the sofa. He hung his coat and then went into the kitchen in search of something fizzy. Damn, he was thirsty. Lestrade opened the door to the fridge slowly, not so much a conscious decision on his part but due to the fact that his body and mind weren’t as in sync as he would have liked to. He fished out a can of coke, ignoring deliberately the box of potentially dubious content right next to it.

Turning the light switch revealed that the kitchen was still in the same state of orderly chaos it had been in when he had left the flat earlier in the evening. But, in all honesty, he couldn’t care less. He grinned wistfully while he sipped on his can. The number of people who both knew about him and Sherlock and were able to make sense of it were probably close to the number of fucks Lestrade was willing to give. What they  _didn’t_  know about was the emptiness he used to feel standing in that kitchen when it looked as if a ghost was inhabiting his flat. Sherlock had changed a lot in Lestrade’s life, had made it messy, infuriating, and at times downright dangerous. But most importantly, Sherlock had made his world lively again.

The man himself was lying on the sofa in a position that didn’t look entirely comfortable. He was on his left, one arm trapped under his body with only his hand sticking out to the side. Lestrade put his can on the table in front of the sofa, crouched down on one knee to pick up the remote control which had clearly slipped from Sherlock’s hand, and switched off the telly.

Sherlock’s mouth was hanging open and occasionally a light snoring sound could be heard. Only love could find this sight endearing. Lestrade grinned completely besotted. He brushed a wave of dark curls from Sherlock’s eyes and tucked it behind the right ear. Then he placed a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead.

God, he was such a soppy drunk. No, not drunk. Tipsy, if at all.

Lestrade’s knees had protested vigorously during the descend but he had managed to keep it quiet. No such luck, though, when he was straightening up again. His groan would have woken the dead, and even Sherlock started to stir.

“Whattimeisit?” Sherlock groaned too while he tried to lift himself with little grace into an upright position.

“After midnight, princess. Your ride has turned into a pumpkin again, but look, I found both your slippers.”

“I would not go so far as to call you a pumpkin …” Sherlock let the sentence trail off and considered him with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, was that a cheeky innuendo? It really must be my birthday.”

“Which I am sad to say is already over.” Sherlock sighed, and put the phone back on the table after having confirmed the time.

“Hey, I knew you would be out cold after we closed the case. It’s fine. I had a great time. John and Mary say hi, by the way. And don’t worry that you missed Anderson’s interpretation of ‘Stayin’ alive’. I filmed it on my phone,” Lestrade grinned. He pulled Sherlock to his feet and wrapped his arms around him.

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed into the crook of Lestrade’s neck. “At least five shots of single malt, something fruity, and a cigar. Not bad for a night out, old man.”

Lestrade snorted. “Watch how you speak to your elders.” He waited the usual beat and then his face softened further when Sherlock leaned in for a kiss.

“This is going to be awkward now,” Sherlock sighed after they had broken the connection.

His brain slightly befuddled from the mushiness of the moment and the alcohol still circulating his body, Lestrade suspected he didn’t sport the most intelligent of expressions. “Huh?”

Sherlock untangled himself from Lestrade’s embrace and pushed him down to sit on the sofa.

“But what has to be done has to be done,” Sherlock continued, completely oblivious to Lestrade’s confusion, and turned to leave.

Lestrade reached out to grab his arm to stop him, but Sherlock simply regarded him with a stern look. “No, stay there. I’ll be right back.” And with that Sherlock disappeared from the room.

‘What the …?’ Slightly bewildered Lestrade picked up the can of coke again, hoping that the additional caffeine would kick-start his brain. But before he could even start to make sense of the situation, the first notes of a familiar tune started floating towards him, growing louder as Sherlock re-entered the room. After he had made quick work of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’’, the melody turned into something more classical, soothing, and simply breathtakingly beautiful. A waltz, Lestrade discovered when he involuntarily tapped the rhythm along on his thigh. There were some things he knew he would never grow tired of. Listening to Sherlock playing the violin was very close to the top of this list. And judging by the look on his face, Sherlock didn’t seem to mind too much either.

By the time Sherlock had finished, the alcohol had clearly taken its toll, Lestrade decided. How else would he explain that he was so close to welling up.

“That was …,” he cleared his throat, “quite something.”

Sherlock waved awkwardly with the bow as if he had forgotten it was still in his hand, and quickly put the instrument aside when he noticed.

“You liked it then? It was … new. Well, obviously not the first part. I feared the strings might voluntarily detach themselves from the neck had I continued to play such trivia. Christmas is enough of a stretch for them as it is, and …”

“Sherlock!” The man stopped his rambling mid-sentence when he noticed Lestrade had started laughing.

“Shut up, and come here, you bastard.” With a mock long-suffering sigh Sherlock settled next to Lestrade on the sofa and let himself be engulfed by the detective inspector, the last ripples of laughter vibrating between them.

“Thank you,” Lestrade whispered.

There truly was no need for anyone but the two of them to understand any of this.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed. I’m sorry for any lingering mistakes. Hope you enjoy nonetheless.


End file.
